Wild Roses - Cold Comfort
by ginny29
Summary: December AC 191: Six months after creation, Treize's new Wing is rapidly gathering a reputation as the best of the best. A routine patrol in space cements Zechs's status as an Ace and leaves Treize injured, revealing the depths of his religious beliefs. As the 10th Anniversary of the Fall of Sanc combines with the fallout, Leia begins to doubt her husband, Lady Une summons the Zod
1. Chapter 1

**Wild Roses – Cold Comfort**

 **Chapter One**

 _Mid-June AC 192_

 _Khushrenada Ancestral Estate – Moscow_

Treize found Leia in her rooms.

Her bedroom was shadowed, the heavy brocade drapes closed against the bright summers day outside, and stuffy, too warm without the bay windows thrown open for ventilation.

Leia herself was sitting nearly motionless on her bed, only her hands moving, constantly washing over and over themselves and plucking restlessly at the lace cuffs of her blouse, as she stared into nothing.

Treize frowned as he took it in. "Leia?" he asked, stepping across the soft carpeting hurriedly. "Is everything alright, love?"

It took the blonde woman a few breaths to respond, then she turned clear blue eyes sparkling with tears up towards him, and shook her head.

"No," she breathed. "It's not. Treize...,"

One delicate white hand reached towards him and Treize caught it automatically, sinking down to sit on the bed at her side.

"Leia-love, what's the matter?" Treize asked, now truly worried.

Leia shivered, then used her free hand to pass him a strip of white plastic which had been hidden form his view by the curve of her body.

"I'm sorry, Treize. I know we didn't intend again so soon..." She stopped and swallowed, then sobbed softly. "I think I'm pregnant."

Treize stared at his wife, then down at the test she'd passed him, reading the clear pictographic result for himself. If it was to be believed, Leia was telling him the truth.

Treize felt a lead weight settle into his stomach, shortening his breath even as he fought to control it. "You do seem to be, yes," he agreed, hating the waver in his voice. He coughed softly to steady it. "Have you spoken to your doctor?" he asked.

Leia shook her head. "What for? There's nothing they can do."

Treize had known that, but the hopelessness in his wife's voice drove it home even further. He forced himself to smile at her warmly, summoning up all his command and diplomatic training as he did so.

"You never know, love," he said gently. "Maybe it will be different this time."

Leia returned his smile, but it was doubting. "Maybe," she agreed uncertainly. "At least, it cannot be as bad as last time," she admitted.

That was certainly true. It would be worse. Far, far worse.

* * *

 _Early December AC 191_

 _Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5_

"Out of the door, please!"

Treize, standing in the dividing door between hanger compartments where he could see as much of his unit as possible at once, jumped at the bark of command in the voice behind him and stepped aside hastily.

Specials medical personnel, all dressed in drab scrubs, flooded into the space as soon as he moved, splitting across the room seamlessly, following the single word commands and hand gestures of Dr Sinclair, the Wing's senior Surgeon.

The place was anarchy. The shouts of the medical personnel and the moans and screams of their patients mingled with the shriek and grind of cutting equipment. Medical techs carried pilots on stretchers as mechanics freed them from torn and damaged suits. The floor was awash with oil and hydraulic liquids, with blood and other bodily fluid.

His eyes still scanning across the bays, Treize winced as he saw one young pilot release the zip line of a badly damaged Leo and fall the last two feet to the floor.

The boy staggered, taking two unsteady steps and then collapsed to his knees and heaved emptily, bracing on one hand. He dragged himself up again a moment later and wavered his way to the side of an officer who was kneeling by the body of another pilot, holding his hand as the medical tech with them worked frantically.

For a moment, Treize didn't recognise his adoptive brother in the officer. Zechs's white-gold hair was dragged into a ragged knot at the base of his skull and so sweat dampened it looked almost brown; the red flight-jacket was gone and the white undershirt and breeches were badly stained.

As Treize watched, Doctor Sinclair reached the little group, bent over the injured pilot for a moment and then shook his head and stepped back, moving on immediately. The medical tech closed his eyes briefly, then selected a pre-loaded hypodermic from his little kit and slid it into the man's carotid artery.

The pilot's body convulsed for a second and then went limp. The med tech was already packing up his kit to move on. Zechs stayed with the body for a few breaths more, then reached out and closed his eyes and stood up, exhaustion in every line of his body.

His movement let Treize see the body he was walking away from and the older man had to swallow hard at the level of injury and look away. Ripped open, burned and broken, it never failed to stagger him just how much damage could be done to the human body without it being fatal. The young pilot had fought his injuries for almost an hour as his suit was tethered back into the ship, and all he'd bought himself was a Doctor's clinical assessment and a mercifully swift death at the end of it.

The blond moved without ever seeing his commander, going to the next of his men to kneel with them as they were dealt with. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts himself, badly from one of them, but he didn't seem to notice.

The other pilot stayed where he was, his young face ashen under the grime. It took Treize a moment to identify Otto, and then he went to him and sank to one knee by his side, trying to stay clear of the blood spreading from the dead pilot. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed hard. "Otto, come on," he murmured quietly, suddenly recalling that the younger man had only been out of the Academy five months. Treize was sure he'd never seen anything like this before.

"Treize…?" Stunned eyes turned to his own. "Major," he corrected shakily. "He… he was in our class…."

"I know," Treize said heavily. Closer proximity had let him identify the dead pilot as one of his former students, one that he had selected personally for the Wing.

He squashed his emotions on that subject ruthlessly and got to his feet again, tugging with his hand to get Otto to move with him. "Come on, now. There's nothing you can do for him."

"I…I know but…."

Treize shook his head. "Come on," he repeated, more sternly. "You need to be checked by a Doctor and then you need to clean up."

Otto stood but he was shaking so hard he could barely hold his balance. Treize grabbed him by one arm and steadied him, watching as the boy tried to speak again, to say something in protest, and failed.

He looked at his commander helplessly, his brown eyes wide and pleading and all-but collapsed. Treize caught him, pulling him close for a moment as the younger man sobbed dryly – a sound of uncomprehending shock and pain rather than the prelude to cleansing tears – and then pushed him away. "Get it together, Officer," he said firmly.

Someone touched Treize on the arm and he turned his head to look into weary golden eyes. "I've got him, sir," Remy Chennault said softly, his accent heavy "I'll see him to his bed and stay with him. You won't need him for debrief tonight?" he asked.

Treize shook his head. "I'll have to speak to Zechs but I doubt it." He looked over the other man, seeing buried reaction and exhaustion in his face but also the surety of experience. It was enough to remind him why he had wanted the man – although only a Captain, he was actually eight years Treize's senior in age, his former squadron leader in fact, and one of the most seasoned pilots in the Wing.

"What happened?" he asked the Cajun man quietly. He'd been taking a wireless briefing from General Catalonia when the hanger relayed the signal that they'd had a request for disaster teams to meet the incoming suits – suits that hadn't been due back for almost six hours

The first and second Squadrons of Treize's Wing had been out on a 12 hour reconnaissance sweep of the local space under Zechs's command. It was the latest in a line of several similar missions; Treize's way of giving his blond friend command experience. There'd been no hint in any of the initial data that the Squadron would meet any real resistance – it should have been little more than an excuse for getting away from the command ship for a few hours and a glorified training exercise, especially with Chennault along, watching for problems.

Clearly, that wasn't what had happened.

Something had forced Zechs to pull his forces out of the field less than halfway through the sweep, and something had forced him to call ahead to the ship and ask that his incoming suits be met with medical teams and engineers.

Treize had abandoned his meeting with his uncle almost without the older man's permission when he'd heard that, scrambling through the corridors of the ship at a pace that wasn't quite a run, frantic with worry. Returning units were always met by a team of medical techs and mechanics – Zechs wouldn't have needed to call for additional support unless things had gone badly, badly wrong.

Chennault shrugged roughly. "Bloody slaughter, sir," he answered bluntly. "They knew we were coming, they knew our numbers – we didn't stand a chance. Zechs was totally blind-sided." He paused. "He held it together damn well, all things considered," he added steadily. "They'd've had the lot of us but for him thinking as fast as he did."

Treize found himself caught between cringing – Chennault wouldn't use words like 'slaughter' lightly - and sudden pride in his brother. Finally, he nodded his acknowledgement. "All right. Make sure Otto sees a Doctor before he showers, and see if you can get him to eat. Feel free to bring him to the Mess if he comes round enough. I suspect I'll be spending the night pouring vodka into Zechs; you're welcome – both of you – to join us."

"Yes, sir." Chennault gripped Otto's other arm, taking his weight from Treize. "Come on, baby bird. You did damn well out there today." He began steering the younger man towards one of the Doctors. "Just keep it up another minute and you can come unstuck all you like."

Treize watched after them for a few moments, then turned his head to look for Zechs.

As he did so, a high pitched whine shattered air across the deck. Treize span in place, barely in time to see one of the engineer's backing away from a damaged Leo at speed.

"Down! Get down!" the man shouted, throwing himself to the floor.

Reflex dropped Treize to the cold metal deck, his hands snapping to protect the vulnerable tissues at the back of his neck.

The ship rocked around him as the Leo's damaged reactor blew, flashing heat and blinding light across the confined space. Treize felt the skin on his hands blister, registered sudden sharp pain in his temples and spine, and then absolute silence fell.

It took Treize 3 full breaths before he could pull himself to his feet and then he was standing, moving, hitting the break glass that would sound the emergency sirens.

"Out!" he shouted. "Clear the deck!"

He scanned for Zechs again and spotted younger man over by the far end of the hanger, bending over a man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. Even from this distance, Treize could make out the strapping that indicated he had a suspected broken bone in his left leg waiting to be seen to by a Doctor.

Zechs pulled the man to his feet roughly, supporting him as they made for the doors at the far end.

A firm hand under his arm rocked Treize on his feet.

"Move, Major," Dr Sinclair ordered him sharply, pulling the officer towards the near doors. "I need you in command, not down with severe radiation poisoning."

Treize obeyed automatically, clearing the deck and waiting till all the other personnel were out of the Hanger before he hit the door seals.

He barely got half a drawn breath in the stunned silence that followed the doors shutting before another hand grabbed him, sharp fingers digging hard into the soft tissues under his shoulder bones.

"Treize!" Zechs's voice was ragged behind him, harsh in his ear as the younger man pulled him round. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

The older officer rather thought he should be asking the other man that, but he nodded quickly, seeing some of the strung-out worry ease from the blonde's face as the gesture.

He reached up, patting Zechs's hand once before pulling his fingers from his coat, then tugged his jacket back into place before looking around properly.

The corridor was even more chaotic than the hanger bay had been, the smaller space rammed with bodies in various states of shock and injury. The medical personnel were already moving person to person again, assessing injury, directing the walking wounded out of their way towards the med bay so they could get to the more seriously wounded.

Treize watched for a few seconds, then looked back at Zechs, who was still standing next to him silently. "Start a head count, Lieutenant," he ordered quietly. "I want to know who's missing."

Zechs blinked, shaking himself as he reacted to Treize's voice. "Sir?" he asked.

"There aren't as many people here as there should be," Treize explained, still keeping his voice quiet. "There should have been two full squadrons in that hanger, plus support personnel and medics. We're missing people, but I don't know who. This was your command – you know them better than I do."

Zechs blinked, the expression visible through his glasses given how close to each other the two men were standing. Neither of them voiced the follow on to Treize's comment – that Zechs would know who had been dead before the reactor exploded – and the blond made to step away, following his orders.

Just before he passed from arm's reach Treize caught his sleeve. "I didn't ask – are you all right?"

Zechs stepped back half a pace, keeping the older man from touching him. "I'm fine," he returned harshly. "Not a scratch," he continued, and his tone was bitter, self-loathing.

Treize hesitated at it, clearly wanting to press and knowing this wasn't the time or the place. The conflict between older brother and commanding officer was written all over his face.

"I wouldn't say that," he replied after a moment, officer winning but with obvious reluctance. "You're bleeding all over the floor," he pointed out.

Zechs hissed between his teeth. "So are a lot of people in here!" he snapped, gesturing at the rest of the room. "Most of them from injuries far more serious than mine!"

"Yes, I'm aware of that," the older man countered mildly. He closed the gap Zechs had put between the two of them and reached out to touch him again, wanting to soothe, to comfort. "Zechs…."

"Don't, Treize," Zechs bit off. "Just don't." He shook his head, taking another step back. "I have to finish this. I won't be able to if you keep trying to make me feel better."

Treize wanted to argue with that but he knew his friend was right. They absolutely didn't have the time, and, besides, the pilot was obviously worn out, so spent that he was snappish, clearly running on the last dregs of crisis-induced adrenaline. Treize knew the feeling well, a bastard mix of exhaustion and frenetic energy that tended to translate mostly into blinkered stubbornness. There would be no talking to the younger man until he'd done what he felt he had to, or until he dropped where he stood.

Turning to start on the task Treize had given him, Zechs shoved though the crowds in the corridor, his clear voice ringing out a moment later.

Dr Sinclair appeared in the gap Zechs had left as soon as it was clear, levelling a cool glare at the younger officer.

"Show me your hands," he ordered.

Treize looked back at him, wondering what the medic was doing. Treize hadn't been part of the returning squadrons; he wasn't injured beyond a few bruises he'd taken in his fall to the decking. Still, he knew better than to argue with a doctor, so he held both hands out in front of him, wondering what the doctor was looking for.

The medic examined the skin closely, then scowled and looked back up at the officer. "I can't tell if that's heat or not," he said, pointing to the sunburn that had spread across the back of Treize's hands. "How are you feeling?"

Treize stared at the doctor in disbelief. "Absolutely fine," he answered, bewildered. "Forgive me, but shouldn't you be dealing with someone with actual injuries?" he asked.

Sinclair squinted at him. "Broken bones will wait, Major," he retorted flatly. "Strip," he ordered, "and answer the question."

"I beg your pardon?" Treize spluttered. "Do what?"

The doctor fairly glared at him. "Did you hit your head, Major Khushrenada, or do I need to start being really worried? Strip, now." He gestured at the door directly behind Treize, giving a frustrated sigh. "I told you in there, we need you in command now not down with radiation sickness. Strip and shower, now," he ordered. "The faster you wash, the less your total exposure, and the better the odds you have of getting through this."

Treize raised one eyebrow, then obeyed the Doctor's orders as rapidly as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wild Roses**

 **Cold Comfort – Chapter Two**

 _Early December AC 191_

 _Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5_

The hours after the immediate explosion of the reactor both crawled and flew for Treize.

The tepid shower, taken in the shared locker rooms just off the hanger deck with harsh chemical soap and a rough brush, had left his skin itchy and his hair lank, and the clean flight suit he'd been handed when he'd towelled off had been drawn from general stores, and lacked all the luxury and warmth of his personalised uniforms.

Still, he'd barely registered the lack of comfort, in favour of taking the ladder to the command centre of the ship three rungs at a time as soon as he was dressed so he could take command of the recovery operation from an exhausted looking Jean-Remy Chennault.

The captain had already ordered the hanger deck be vented to space, damning the cost of the lost suits and equipment if they couldn't be recovered, and tallied together Zechs's rough head count from the corridor to show they were missing 8 pilots and five support crew.

Treize looked at the figures, closed his eye for a moment in silent prayer, then looked back at the Cajun Officer. "It could have been worse," he said quietly.

"It could, a lot," Remy agreed softly. "Marquise is earning his stripes today, that's for sure."

Treize recalled what Remy had told him on the hanger deck, noting it alongside the fact that Zechs was still on his feet in the lower decks, moving from pilot to pilot in his squadron to talk to them personally, and nodded his agreement.

"He is. Pass the word for a Command Briefing in 60 minutes," he told Remy, "then go to bed and get some sleep. I'll pass you the notes from the briefing." He paused for a moment, letting Chennault scowl his puzzlement at the oddness of the orders he'd just been given – a command briefing in a crisis that he wasn't attending? - then continued, "I don't want to see you for at least 4 hours. One of us needs to be sure of a clear head."

The older officer's scowl set, and he stepped into Treize's side, casting him an assessing gaze. "Problem, sir?" he asked, his voice suddenly dropping to not much above a whisper.

Treize flicked a hand at his dress, answering and dismissing at the same time. "I was on the hangar deck," he explained carefully, aware of the ears of the bridge crew, "and I'm not one for taking chances. If it's needed, it'll be yours to relieve me and take over. There's too much to be done to chance an uncertain command."

Chennault stood in silence, his eyes flicking back and forth across Treize's face, then nodded.

"Yes, sir, he said levelly, as though he hadn't just been told he might have the job of declaring his dying commander unfit to serve in a few hours, with all that would go with such an action.

He snapped a brisk salute and turned on his heel to hurry through the hatch.

* * *

Treize was the last to arrive in the ward room an hour later, having paused on his way to change the borrowed flight suit for his own combat kit, sturdy lace up jump-boots, stiff fatigue pants and heavy blue pullover with its padded shoulders and elbows. He'd done it both for the sake of morale – it was better for him to be recognised, together, acting normally, than looking like a patient – and comfort, assuming that him shivering all the way through the briefing in the thin cotton suit would not be conducive to clear decision making.

The other officers called to the briefing were in variations on the three modes of dress, but Treize didn't particularly bother to notice who was wearing which beyond noting Zechs's astonishingly red match for his own clothes, and remembering that the younger man had been missing his red jacket since his return to the ship.

Treize took the seat that had been left for him, next to Zechs and Doctor Sinclair and facing the ship's senior Flight Engineer, then called the meeting to order.

Various squadron leads and support personnel gave their reports first, leaving only the Flight Engineer and the Doctor to give theirs. Of them, the Engineer went first, apologetically detailing the damage that the explosion had done to the ship directly and indirectly, and the limits that subsequent dumps of air and heat from the hangar deck and water from pipes passing near it had imposed to their supplies.

"…. Approximately 20% of our water supply was suspected contaminated," he finished.

"In real terms, please?" Treize asked the man calmly.

"We're projected another 10 days out here," the engineer replied, "but I'm recommending we now look to no more than half that without resupply. I'm also recommending lowering ships ambient temperature by at least 10 degrees and turning off all non-essential systems to reduce the strain on the remaining conversion units – we're designed to run with the loss of one, but not two, and the aft unit is coming to the end of its service life. I'm concerned that over-tolerance strain will cause it to fail, which would drop us straight into real trouble."

Treize raised an eyebrow as he digested that, noting Sinclair shifting unhappily. As well he might – the ship's standard ambient temperature was a cool but comfortable 13° C, allowing for the Specials heavy uniform whilst being warm enough to shower and sleep comfortably. Dropping it to 3°C or lower would leave a noticeable chill in the air – not good for a Doctor fighting with large numbers of sick and injured personnel.

He opened his mouth to give his consent regardless – it was the lesser of two evils in this case – and stopped when Zechs leaned forward.

"Excuse me, Captain," he asked the Engineer, his voice level but his face intent, "but why are we operating without a backup unit?"

The Engineer blinked, clearly not expecting either the question or the questioner. "…I'm sorry?" he asked.

"We run on four units; we can run on three. We can't run on two at all. Why aren't we carrying a spare, particularly if one unit is close to service-life?"

The Engineer hesitated, flicking a glance at Treize, who inclined his head; it was a good question and, now that it had been asked, he was of a mind to hear the answer.

"We do," the Engineer said slowly. "Or we did. We installed the spare early in the flight, to replace unit 3, which had burned out." He sat back as he spoke, clearly expecting the matter to be closed.

Zechs nodded carefully. "So we left Earth-Orbit with two dubious units, but only one spare? Is that… accepted practice?"

The Engineer bridled visibly. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?" he snapped, with an emphasis on the blonde's rank. "What are you implying? Yes, a single backup is absolutely according to regulations."

"I'm implying nothing, Captain," Zechs returned, unfazed. "Merely trying to establish something which strikes me as in need of review. Are those regulations unchanged for combat-likely missions?"

The Engineer glared. "What difference does that make?" he snapped, clearly not mollified.

Zechs shrugged. "Only that it increases the likelihood of a damaged suit or a damaged hanger bay, and since two of the four units are immediately surrounding the bay…." He shrugged again. "Has the suggestion of a second backup ever been made?"

The Engineer went red in the face; he knew well enough now what Zechs was getting at. Treize's unit was all about innovation. Competent wasn't enough and hiding behind regulations would impress no-one. Zechs had as good as finished the Captain in the unit and he knew it – the suggestion for a future second backup should have come from him, and now, if not before the ship left Orbit.

"Thank you, Zechs," Treize said gently. "We'll review procedure at a later date." He looked at the Engineer. "Lower the temperature," he ordered.

His words caused Dr Sinclair to stir again, and Treize turned to look at him. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I'm not happy with dropping the temperature," he said evenly. "I've got several very sick and injured individuals in sick bay, two of whom are going to need stabilising surgery in the next few hours. I can't operate if I can't feel my fingers, gentlemen," he quipped, drawing a strained chuckle. "Added to that, a good number of the crew either already are or are going to be ailing in the next few hours, and I have to object on medical grounds."

Treize considered. "How long do you need for the surgeries?" he asked.

"Five or six hours, give or take," Sinclair replied.

The redhead nodded. "We'll hold temperature until you say you're done, but I can't let a little discomfort override engineering reality. Unless you tell me shivering a little will be medically dangerous, we'll suffer."

He waited for the doctor's response, which was a resigned head shake.

"Which brings us to Medical in any case," Treize continued. "Can you give me an update?"

Sinclair shrugged. "We had a complete beach of a Leo thrust unit," he said, voice level.

Treize waited whilst that information was assimilated around the table. He and Zechs had been in the hanger when the reactor blew but the other officers had not and he watched as their faces showed their realisation of what the doctor was driving at. The exploding reactor had run off a short half-life Iodine-isotope core, and the Academy curriculum included just a little too much high-energy physics for them not to know what that might mean.

"Do you know what level of exposure we're looking at?" Leander Aristedes asked from his seat a quarter of the way around the table, and Treize was abruptly reminded that his mandatory degree had been in Physics.

"No," the doctor answered flatly. "The dosimeters in the hanger are completely overloaded. We had three people vomiting inside twenty minutes – that says the levels were higher than we'd like."

There was a general rustle around the table as that was digested. Every officer there had studied radiation sickness in their first term at the Academy - when you flew suits powered by reactors all day every day, exposure was a when not an if - but Treize suspected most were as rusty as he was.

"Then shouldn't you be with them?" Leander asked. "You're the senior medic…."

The doctor cut him off by shaking his head slowly. "Lieutenant, if they're vomiting that soon, they're dead already. There's nothing I can do for them barring a Dignitas shot, and I have nurses that can do that just fine."

There was a general shiver around the table and Treize's eyes locked with Zechs's, seeing the sudden fear in the blonde's eyes. He tried to project reassurance, confidence, and was so focussed that he missed the doctor bending down and reappearing with a needle in his hand until the man jabbed it into his carotid artery.

He flinched immediately – and not only from the sharp sting. Sinclair had just been talking about administering the lethal drug cocktail the Specials used for euthanizing those too badly injured to live in combat situations.

"Anti-Rad cocktail, Major. You ran away from me before I could give it to you earlier," the doctor chuckled, having registered the flinch and snorted at it. "Don't panic," he added drolly. "I'll tell you before I kill you."

Treize let his expression convey what he thought of that little comment, glaring icily even as the doctor hit him with another shot. "If it comes to that," he replied softly, really not wanting this conversation overheard, and trusting in the round of chuckles the byplay had triggered to give him cover, "no, you won't."

Sinclair flicked him an arch look, jabbing him a third time. "What, tell you?" he asked.

Treize shook his head, flicked a glance at Zechs, then pulled his ID tags free of his collar, neatly drawing the doctors attention to the little silver cross carried on the same chain. "No, kill me," he clarified. He dropped his voice a little further. "I have a standing exemption on file," he explained.

"Ah," Sinclair said. "So noted. Roman Catholic?" he asked gently.

"Russian Orthodox," Treize corrected, as silence fell again. "Will I be regretting that?" he asked lightly, as though he wasn't talking about his own possibly impending horrible death.

The doctor gave his snort of amusement again. "Well, you haven't thrown up on my shoes yet, so I'm not too worried." He shrugged, then turned back to the table generally. "Share this information with your pilots and crew, please," he instructed. "I want to know about any incidence of nausea or vomiting as soon as it happens. Without dosimeter readings, the best rule of thumb way to measure rad exposure is waiting to see when vomiting starts. The longer that…."

"When?" Zechs interrupted, frowning. "Not, if? I feel fine."

"When, not if. At least for you and the Major. You were both definitely exposed," Sinclair confirmed. "The longer it is between now and then, the lower the dose you took, and the less severe the follow up symptoms will be now and after the latent phase."

Zechs nodded but he didn't look happy. "All right. How long is it likely to last?"

Sinclair shot Zechs a speculative look. "Anything from a few minutes to a few days," he answered. "It's a multi-type exposure – Iodine and Caesium. We knew it was possible; we're prepped for it – I'll be issuing Prussian Blue and Iodine tablets to the whole crew – but it's still radiation acting on organic tissue. Everyone's tolerance is different."

Zechs nodded again.

Treize took the opportunity to take back control of his briefing. "Thank you, Doctor. So," he said to the officer's around the table, "we have an unknown hostile, a damaged command ship and a third of our strength out of action. Let's go prove what we're made of."

He paused for a moment, then made eye contact with every officer round the table. "Captain Chennault is currently resting," he said evenly, explaining the Wing Second's absence for the first time. "When and if it's needed, he'll relieve me and take command. I expect you all to give him the respect and assistance you would me – we'll deal with the consequences at a later date," he added, quelling another round of rustling as the assembled officers realised Chennault had agreed to do something that might cost him his career and his commission – product of European nobility that the Specials were, there was no mechanism in their regulations for the relief of a superior officer by a junior that didn't mandate an automatic courtmartial.

He looked at Zechs. "Can you be ready to hand off control of your Squadron, if necessary? If nothing else, Chennault will need you to back him."

Zechs scowled at him for a moment, then nodded and flicked a look at Aristedes. "Ari?" he asked and the Greek officer nodded immediately.

"Of course," he said, offering the other blond a small smile.

Treize blinked in surprise. Zechs's choice made perfect sense – as the commander of the marine squadron, Aristedes had the least to do on a space deployment and was perfectly capable of piloting a Leo besides – but last time Treize had checked Zechs certainly hadn't been on civil terms with the other man, much less using nicknames.

The surprise grew even more when, as Treize dismissed the briefing, Leander and Zechs hurried from the room together, blond heads bent towards each other.

* * *

Four hours later, Treize had finally resumed his briefing with General Catalonia, reassuring his worried uncle that he was fine and informing his irritated Commander of the events of the past few hours.

The man had scowled so hard at the reports that Treize had been concerned he would do himself an injury.

"Do you need a relief ship?" Catalonia demanded as the briefing wound to a close, and Treize shook his head, eager to have it over.

"No, sir. The ship is serviceable and we have sufficient able pilots and suits to be more than capable of defending ourselves if needs be. Dr Sinclair assures me that those injured are stable enough that an emergency evac isn't needed."

"And yourself?" the older man asked, ever insightful. "You didn't ask me about Chennault for fun, Treize."

Treize nodded. "No, I didn't. I've felt better but Sinclair assures me I'll be fine."

"Certain?"

"Yes, sir," Treize insisted.

Catalonia gave a sharp nod. "Excellent. One last thing before I let you go, then," he said, and Treize suppressed a groan.

"Sir?" he asked politely.

"Your little Marquise… he made Ace with his sortie earlier. We've had the data analysed now – his confirmed kill-count is 11. He'll likely be decorated, too. Military Flying Medal, maybe. Possibly the Distinguished Service Order. I'll make a thing of it at Christmas. Get the press involved." He paused. "He was a good choice, Treize. I didn't think he'd take to it like this, but you were right."

Treize inclined his head. "Thank you, sir."

"Not that you weren't right about the whole thing. You're breeding a Wing of aces, there, lad. Young, well-bred, unbeatable. Bloody good PR."

"Thank you, sir," Treize said again.

Catalonia waved a hand. "You look like death warmed up, lad. Go. We'll talk about this when you're back on Earth."

Treize nodded again, then waited for the signal to cut off, leaving his laptop screen black, before dropping back to lie on his bunk, exhausted and swallowing against the nausea twisting his gut repeatedly.

He lay there for a few minutes, and had just about decided to give up and get it over with when a knock at his door disturbed him. He bit off his second groan in less than ten minutes, lifting his head to bid whoever it was to enter.

He swung his feet down and sat up as the hatch opened, regretting it as soon as he did it.

"Okay," Zechs said from somewhere above him. "I came to see how you were doing but I think I know." He crossed the room, closing the hatch behind him and stopping and bending smoothly mid walk. "You're an interesting colour there, sir," he said, dry humour touching his voice. "Here."

Treize would have replied; instead he thought it better to simply take the waste-paper bin Zechs offered him and close his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wild Roses**

 **Cold Comfort – Chapter Three**

 _Early December AC 191_

 _Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5_

Zechs kept his back turned as Treize occupied himself with the bin, mentally blocking his ears and focusing his attention on the little knick-knacks the man had laid out on the single spare shelf in the room. He smiled at a photo of Marie he hadn't seen before, noting that, at almost 2 and a half, his God-daughter was starting to lose her baby looks and resemble a proper little girl, if one with a fierce intellect – there was no hiding the intelligence in the girl, even in a photo.

Then again, with her parents, that had always been the likely outcome. Leia was no slouch in the brains department and Treize was one of the sharpest minds in the Earthsphere. Zechs knew there weren't many who notably outclassed him for intelligence, but his adoptive brother was one of them, and measurably so, a fact acknowledged by his inclusion on the 'watch-word' team, the Alliance's crack code breakers.

There was silence behind him for a minute, then booted feet crossing metal decking, the sound of running water and the flush of the head, the whir of Treize's electric toothbrush.

Zechs turned back as Treize dropped onto his bunk again, white-faced and red-eyed and still looking better than he had five minutes earlier.

The older officer made a noise that sounded like nothing so much as 'ugh', and Zechs chuckled sympathetically. "If it makes it any better, you're the third person I've handed a bucket to today," he said lightly, "and I rather think you won't be the last – not with the state Otto was in when he passed out."

"It doesn't," Treize replied wearily. "Thank Christ Catalonia didn't keep his briefing up much longer. That would have been embarrassing!"

Zechs smiled. "A bit, I imagine. I'm sure he would have understood." He waved a hand at Treize's desk chair. "May I?" he asked.

The older man nodded once and Zechs grabbed the chair, spinning it so he could sit on it backwards, leaning on the backrest with both forearms and putting his chin on his hands. "What a day," he sighed heavily.

Treize nodded his agreement, then took shameless advantage of the fact that the man in the room with him was family as well as fellow officer and let himself drop back down onto his bunk again until he was lying prone again. "Agreed," he said quietly. "Would you think less of me if I confessed I'm not entirely sure what time it is?"

Zechs snorted. "A little after 9pm," he said, checking his wrist watch, "and don't be daft." He tossed his dark glasses onto Treize's desk and rubbed his eyes. "But for those bastard rogue suits, I'd just about be landing in the hanger now."

Treize nodded, then lifted his head as a thought occurred. "Damn," he swore, looking at Zechs. "I knew I'd forgotten something. I haven't taken your report!"

"Or checked your mail in the last three hours," Zechs replied, smiling and shaking his head. "Une sent you the transcript at the same time she sent it to General Catalonia, about three and a half hours ago. Don't tell me you've 'forgotten' signing it?" he laughed, miming himself signing a sheet of paper.

Treize stared. "That breaks about sixteen regulations," he commented. "Care to tell me how I signed something I haven't seen?" he asked. "Also, how you got Lady Une to agree to it?"

"Easy, on both counts," Zechs said, shrugging away the issue of the rules. "I've been able to forge your signature for years, and I simply told Une it'd be best for you not to be bothered with me. Et Voila," he finished, flourishing one hand.

Treize shook his head before dropping it back onto his pillow and closing his eyes. "Christ," he breathed. "Perhaps it's best you two don't get on. I suspect I'd be a puppet in my own command in days if you ever buried the hatchet."

"Yes, well, there's not much chance of that," Zechs snorted. "The woman's a class-A bitch. And I'm not the only one that thinks so."

Treize shrugged. "I find her anything but. She's harsh, yes, but very efficient. It's a useful trait," he said, bringing one arm up to cover his eyes with his forearm for a moment.

Zechs laughed again, then got to his feet. "Well, at risk of offending you horribly," he said, daring with Treize half asleep in his bunk and both of them in informal uniform, "the rest of us aren't screwing her. It might be affecting your perceptions."

Treize came up onto his elbows, his face a study in outrage. "Zechs!" he snapped, shocked.

The blond simply laughed drily, and leaned over to give him a shove, landing him back on the bunk with a small bounce. "Yes, yes," he said. "What happens in your bedroom is none of my business," he quoted. "Whatever," he added, rolling his eyes. "Go to sleep," he ordered mildly.

Treize knew he should be protesting, but really couldn't find the energy. "Is Chennault….?" he started and Zechs cut him off.

"Remy's been up and about for about an hour and has everything well under control," he said, tugging the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed and tossing it over the older man lightly. "I'll check in with him before I turn in, but I doubt he needs me to. He has Hilly keeping him company and Sweet Robin is currently taking strips out of Engineer Simmonds. He is Not Happy," he emphasized. "Xavi and Ari have set up to alternate reconnaissance sweeps. Xavi's out at the moment. Ari's resting. Go to sleep, sir," he repeated. "We've got it."

Treize nodded, wondering at his uncharacteristic willingness to yield. Dr Sinclair had warned him about the fatigue when he'd reported the start of the nausea but he hadn't thought he meant this sudden and total exhaustion.

A moment later heard booted feet cross his room and the hatch open and shut.

As he drifted off, he found himself wondering when Zechs had gotten on such good terms with his fellow Squadron leads that he was calling every one of them by their informal names. Captain Chennault, Marchioness de Valois, Baronet Muskerry, Don Velasquez and Prince Aristedes, and he was calling them Remy, Hilly, Sweet Robin, Xavi and Ari something he wouldn't be doing to Treize unless the individuals involved had said he could.

Being accepted as a peer by that group wasn't bad going for less than six months of active service, Treize mused, recalled that he'd forgotten to tell Zechs of his new Ace status and his impending Decoration, then sighed and let sleep take him.

* * *

Zechs closed Treize's door behind him with a small frown on his face, shaking his head ruefully. There weren't many instances of him seeing Treize completely defenceless as he had been just then, but it had happened, and seemed to be happening more frequently as time passed.

Still, he didn't like seeing his brother unwell, although knowing it had been six hours since the reactor had blown did settle some of the fear Zechs had been feeling for the older man. A conversation with Aristedes as they'd left the briefing had given him a brief overview of dose levels, lethality and how that related to the speed a person vomited after exposure, and he knew now that the dose Treize had likely taken would be unpleasant but almost certainly not lethal.

Which was good, all things considered. Treize would have cursed if he'd known, but Zechs hadn't missed his conversation with Dr Sinclair during the briefing, where he'd reminded the Doctor that he wasn't permitted the use of the Dignitas shot in his case.

And how – and why - hadn't he known that little fact about Treize? The use of the Euthanasia regulations was highly controversial to the rest of the Alliance, he knew, but in the Specials it was regarded only as good sense. What individual wanted to suffer when there was no real chance of life and what royal or noble family needed the disaster that would be the return of an officer in a position of power who had only just escaped such, with the physical and mental injuries that would entail? Zechs agreed with the sentiment, and had signed the paperwork without hesitation on enlistment, as had every one of his class mates as far as he knew. Given that Treize had never mentioned anything different, and had certainly never raised any objections, he had assumed the same was true for him, as well.

Knowing now that wasn't the case was jarring, not least for the reason Treize had given. Zechs had known he was given to vague religious leanings, especially since he had seen the little cross before and had occasionally heard him pray, but he hadn't known just how seriously Treize took his faith.

"Credit for them?" someone said behind him, and Zechs snapped his head round to come face to face with Leander Aristedes.

"Not worth the change," Zechs dismissed, not wanting to explain what he had been thinking to the other officer, for fear of having to explain all the background that came with it. By now, Leander had some notion that Treize and Zechs had more of a relationship than Commander and Lieutenant, but not what, or how much.

"Sure?" the other man asked, drawing level and falling into step. "You look fretful. The Commander's not in trouble, is he?" he continued, looking and sounding genuinely concerned.

It was one of the things Zechs had noticed very early on, that. That his own loyalty and concern for Treize were unquestioning was a given, but it seemed to be the case for all the other senior officers in the Wing as well, and for a good number of the pilots. Treize seemed to inspire, without trying at all, a natural, fierce and personal loyalty from almost everyone he commanded.

Zechs shook his head. "He's puking and shattered, but he's fine. He's just been briefing General Catalonia," he explained, knowing Treize wouldn't care about this other senior officer having the details of his condition as readily as he knew that he would have flipped if Zechs had told Otto.

Aristedes smiled, looking genuinely relieved. "That's good." He gave it a beat, letting the rap of their boots fill the air. "Have you spoken to Otto?" the Greek Prince asked.

Zechs flicked the other blond a curious look, tilting his head as they turned the corner that lead to the inter-deck ladder. "A couple of hours ago, why?"

Leander took the steps to the deck below two at a time, waited for Zechs to join him, then shrugged. "Just wondering. Remy was looking after him but he chucked him at me when the hanger blew. I stayed with him till the Commander called his briefing but I've been busy since." He bit his lip in a little quirk that Zechs personally found cute as hell. "He seemed a bit freaked out."

"He is," Zechs agreed. "I tossed him into his bunk to sleep it off, but he's going to feel like shit when he wakes, the amount he drank to get him there."

Leander laughed at that. "Well, we've all done that," he chuckled. "As long as he can fly in a reasonably straight line, no-one'll care, especially not Remy." He rolled his eyes, then sobered. "The pilots are talking, though. Was it really that bad?"

Zechs shrugged tightly. "7 dead pilots, and that was before the reactor blew. Not what I'd call a successful mission." He stopped by his bunk room and keyed in the code that would release the door, inviting the other pilot in with a tip of his head.

The door hissed shut, the lights flicking on automatically as the sensors built into the walls registered movement, the dim red glow of the emergency lighting that Treize had ordered as part of the attempt to reduce the strain on the damaged ship. Zechs hated it; it gave him a splitting headache after an hour or so and did nothing for his nerves. He'd been avoiding his bunk for just that reason.

Leander followed him, dropping into the desk chair without waiting for further invite – he'd been in Zechs's rooms here and at the base often enough in the last four and half months that they were past formality like that.

Zechs thumped onto the edge of his bunk with none of his normal control and bent to unlace his boots, kicking them off and pulling black-socked feet onto the blankets as he yanked his pillow free, tossed it to the foot of the bunk and rolled to sprawl on his front, elbows on the pillow, chin on his hands.

After a moment, he rolled up a bit, and used one hand to tug out the tie that was keeping his hair up and off his face in the rough ponytail he used for the lengthening locks when he needed them out of his way or didn't have time to brush them out properly.

He raked his fingers through them, fluffing them around his face and past his shoulders, shaking them out like a cat settled its fur.

Leander chuckled indulgently, the sound soft and knowing. The last four and a half months had seen them do more than build informality together; Leander was close on as regular a guest in Zechs's bed as Otto, and if he was not, and never would be, the particular friend that Otto was, nor did the other man try for it, which was sometimes as welcome as Otto's fierce and protective devotion.

"What a bitch of a day," Zechs sighed, a variation on what he'd said to Treize.

Aristedes nodded his agreement. "Not ideal, definitely, but you've come out of it pretty well. The pilots really are talking, and some of the things they're saying…" He tipped Zechs a speculative, demanding look. "What did happen out there? I'm hearing all sorts of stories about you basically doing the fucking impossible repeatedly and saving everyone's arse."

Zechs winced. "Not everyone's," he reminded shortly.

"Close enough," Leander fired back. "False modesty doesn't suit you, by the way."

The younger blond stared at his companion in open disbelief for that comment, then buried his face in his pillow and shook his head. "It wasn't false modesty," he mumbled. "Fuck," he swore suddenly, the long line of his body tensing as he gave a low, muffled moan.

There was silence in the room for a moment, then the bed dipped under him and Zechs felt a wash of body heat against the bare skin of his hands and neck as strong hands dug into his shoulders.

"Bloody coat," Leander complained, though Zechs wasn't wearing his customised flight jacket, having stripped it in the cockpit of his Leo as he fought the rebel suits, overheated and needing not to sweat himself into dehydration. "I always forget you're a rookie."

Zechs would have protested that normally. Six months in the unit, upwards of a dozen combat sorties, not including today's, and hundreds of hours in command of his Squadron had left him feeling anything but a new officer anymore, despite the fact that he was only just having to polish the leather and metal on his uniform.

Not today, though. Today he had felt exactly what he was, a sixteen year old boy barely out of training and not nearly experienced enough for the situation he had found himself in. There had been moments, out in the black of space, where he'd been a heartbeat from screaming at Captain Chennault to take overall command and only Treize's voice in his head, the voice of his training, insisting that hesitation and doubt on his part would likely be disastrous, had kept him from doing it.

He nodded wordlessly, feeling the sights and sounds of the day he'd been blocking with constant movement since he'd landed in the hanger deck bubble up from the seething tide of poison that forever washed in the blackest parts of his mind. As always, his powerful memory gave him the replay in full colour and sharp sound, and he shuddered as he heard the choking, cut-off scream of Officer Iga Broze wash through his radio feed, saw the blinding flash of her suit vaporising as the unit was assaulted from all sides without warning.

She had been the first loss, but not the last, and the names of the men and women he hadn't been fast enough, smart enough, experienced enough to command into saving themselves were suddenly repeating in his head over and over, shortening his breath as adrenalin surged.

Leander's hands dug in harder, biting into the heavy muscle across Zechs's shoulders. "Easy Marquise," he commanded firmly. "Breathe it off."

Zechs fought himself to obey, drawing on his training and all the techniques he'd been taught throughout his childhood. He'd thought, in all the years before he'd been a serving soldier, that the hard bit of the deal he'd struck would be pulling the trigger, but, in the end, the anger he carried at what had been done to his country and his people had made that easy. This, though, this… this idea that men and women he'd known, had served with, had been responsible for were dead when they needn't have been, when if he'd just been better, older, _more_ was hitting triggers even he hadn't known he had and he was suddenly going to pieces.

"Breathe it off," Leander insisted. "You do not get to go freaky on me, Marquise."

The older blonde's words were hard, but his tone and the steady grip on his shoulders told Zechs that Leander understood and sympathised. "…sorry…" Zechs managed. "…I thought… I'd be able to help now…."

He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't known he was going to say it until he had… and, yes, it was exactly what the Greek Prince had told him not to do.

"Jesus…" Leander said softly. "Marquise…come on." His hands bit down to the point of pain. " _Peacecraft…_ " he tried, and Zechs shuddered again.

"Don't!" he warned.

Leander shifted where he was sat. "Okay," he agreed. "I get it, though," he said steadily. "Now, for fuck's sake, breathe this off. I'm not your boyfriend or your bunkie and I cannot be arsed spotting for you so save the angst for Otto."

That was Leander top to toe. Blunt, brisk and all over boundaries everyone tiptoed round. He was also the only other Royal serving in the Wing, and that made his use of Zechs's real name, usually the cue for a complete melt down, something that actually helped. Leander might just, actually, get what Zechs had been trying to explain and understand the parallels that his fucked-up head was drawing between the country he'd failed to keep safe and the pilots he'd failed to save.

He drowned another low moan into his pillow, then forced himself to inhale again slowly. "Christ," he sighed. "I need a drink."

Leander laughed softly. "I'll bet. Can't oblige you, though. If the Commander's still down sick when Remy needs to go off-shift, you'll have to be fit to take the Wing."

That comment made Zechs tense up all over again. "Sorry, what?" he asked, looking up at the other man for the first time in minutes.

"Hadn't you realised?" Leander chuckled. "You're 1st Lieutenant; have you forgotten the Wing Command Order, Marquise? The Commander, then Chennault, then you. Roll over," he said, smirking a little and patting Zechs on his hip.

"What?"

"Roll over," Leander repeated. "Get with it, baby bird," he taunted, shoving a little. "I can't get you a drink but I can take the sting out of the day for you a little."

Zechs rolled over obligingly, resettling flat on his back, but he shook his head. "I'm exhausted, I'd be useless," he said honestly.

The other officer laughed wickedly, his hands going to the fly of Zechs's fatigue pants and pulling it down. "Well, yes," he agreed. "But I didn't say I needed you to do anything right now." He slipped his hand past the undone zipper, finding black cotton and tugging it out of his way. "You can return the favour later if you like. I'm sure I won't mind."

Zechs returned the smirk, letting his eyes flash his gratitude as he dropped his head back onto his pillow, closing his eyes as Leander took him in hand.

Expecting the older officer to bring him off that way, he jolted in shock a moment later when he felt warm breath tease over his length, followed quickly by a wet mouth and strong jaw.

He lifted his head to see the older blond had dropped to his knees by the side of his bunk and was already working diligently.

"Won't mind," Zechs repeated. "Right," he drawled, then sank back and let his mind blank under the white haze of pleasure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wild Roses**

 **Cold Comfort – Chapter Four**

 _December 15th AC 191_

 _Alliance Central Command – Paris, France_

Zechs shot Treize a concerned look, knowing his dark glasses would hide the look from everyone else and knowing that the older man would catch it anyway.

Sure enough, Treize turned his reddish head enough to briefly meet the blonde's gaze questioningly. "Lieutenant?" he asked, inviting the question, even as his tone firmly reminded the younger man that he was the junior officer and should speak only when spoken to.

Such a shame Zechs was anything other than another junior officer.

"You shouldn't be here, sir," he said quietly.

Treize flicked him another look, this one brimming with irritation. "How so, Lieutenant?" he asked crisply.

"Uh, you did, actually, look in a mirror this morning, right?" Zechs asked in return. "You looked better at the end of that week in China than you do now, Treize."

'That week in China' had actually been ten days at the start of October, a high-profile, high stakes intervention in the mountainous North of the country, attacking down from Mongolia to try to break the stronghold of the resistance based around the Sacred Mountains. It had been the first full deployment of the Wing, the first true test of Treize as a commander and the older man had pushed his pilots to exhaustion, his Officers past it and himself almost to the point of collapse to ensure that it was a deft and dazzling success.

"Oh, let up, Zechs," Treize countered, the irritation showing in his voice now.

Zechs let his surprise at the informal phrasing show, then shook his head slowly. "No, really," he said. "Treize, seriously, you look…."

He let a vague gesture encompass the older man, his pale face with the hectic colour spotting his cheekbones, reddened eyes and shaking hands.

Treize countered it with another irritated glance. "Yes, Zechs. I have a head cold."

Zechs snorted at that. "No, Marie has a head cold. You have a head cold on top of Acute Radiation Sickness and a doctor who ordered you to rest."

Treize let the irritation become open annoyance. "I also have a general who ordered me to attend today and several officers, including you, who deserve to have me here. I'll be fine," he said firmly.

Zechs doubted that and, privately, cursed his sister in law all over again.

The attack on the Wing in deep space had made the news reports, the growing reputation of both the unit and its commander attracting attention that normally wouldn't have been the case. Still it had been a minor story until the footage of Zechs's response, drawn from suit black boxes and the command ship's long range cameras, had been leaked by someone in the Alliance HQ. The dazzling piloting, the inspirational snippets of the orders Zechs had barked, combined with still shots of Zechs and Treize, Remy and a few others, had sent the story viral.

Treize had been publicly outraged by it all, demanding an investigation into the leak and the courtmartial of whoever was responsible, but Zechs knew he was secretly pleased by the reaction. The greater the reputation of the Wing and its pilots, the greater clout he would have when it came time to push his ideas through to the rest of the unit.

And if he was delighted in private, General Catalonia was making no secret of being openly thrilled. Hence the ceremony they were on their way to attend.

It should have been easy. It should have been a glittering, press-frenzy of a medal presentation, leading into two weeks downtime for the wing before they redeployed to their new, permanent base in Moscow just in time for the new year – a Christmas which would have been marked by one party after another, each more lavish than the last to build on the media hype.

It would have been easy, except that Leia had seen the news footage, and had been worried sick by it, and had dragged herself half way round the world to meet the returning unit as they shuttled into the JAP base in Auckland, weary, worn and ailing, a week earlier.

She'd literally met them as they stepped from the re-entry shuttle, having used her name to bully her way past the security lines, breaching the rudimentary quarantine that had been established as she threw herself into Treize's shocked hold, tears in her eyes.

And even that might have been all right, if she hadn't confessed the next day that the reason she hadn't brought Marie was because the toddler had 'the sniffles.'

Further away from the blast and out of the direct line of it as he had been, Zechs had taken radiation, but at a rather low level. He'd taken almost twelve hours to turn queasy, and then had vomited only twice before feeling reasonably all right again, and fine, fit and well, if knackered by the time they were earthbound again.

On the other hand, in addition to the five rad-caused deaths they'd had, several individuals, Treize amongst them, had flirted with the edge of serious exposure and were suffering accordingly. Suffering which had as a symptom a compromised immune system.

And whilst the anti-rad cocktails they'd been taking contained broad-spectrum antibiotics, they did not contain anti-virals as standard, because, as Dr Sinclair had explained, several weeks of multiple anti-viral treatments would have had crippling side effects and been impossible to administer, whereas, in a closed military unit, possible viral exposure was a relatively small risk to assess.

At least until uninvited, hysterical relatives showed up.

Treize had been fine until the day before yesterday, then, during their final briefing before the break, Zechs had watched his Commander sicken, the virus taking hold visibly during the three hour meeting. He'd walked into it reasonably well, all things considered; he'd walked out flushed, coughing and with Zechs's hand on his arm for balance, admitting he felt 'a touch dizzy'.

Sinclair had ordered him to bed, stuffing him full of God-knows-what and acerbically ordering a now-upset Leia to monitor him hourly and record the results, if she could remember that much of her basic training. That he had not been impressed was an understatement and less so when he found out she was a Nurse.

Zechs had bobbed in to check on him a couple of times between helping Captain Chennault close out the Christmas Island base, telling himself that if Treize had to be sick, at least he was getting a decent amount of command experience.

He'd forgotten about today's little shindig until Otto turned up at his door disgustingly early this morning, making teasing comments abut his conquering hero and helping Zechs settle the fussy details of his Mess Dress Uniform into place, including the full length opera cape he'd never worn before, only grateful that Catalonia had shown mercy and not insisted on the full regalia of Ceremonial as he could have.

And if Zechs's had gotten ready, then found himself having to get ready all over again when Otto half stripped him with a lustful growl at the picture he made, well, he wasn't complaining too much, even if they had had to run across the base to avoid missing the plane that was taking them to Paris and the ceremony.

It was a 6 hour flight, for a mid-afternoon function, made possible by the joys of time-zone hopping – they would actually arrive back in Moscow in the early hours of the following morning, and be released to their liberty as soon as the plane stopped taxiing.

It was proof of the old joke about military intelligence being an oxymoron that half of the officers and men on the plane would promptly turn round and fly back across Europe to go home to their families for the duration of their leave, Otto amongst them.

Although, he and several others would be back in Moscow again in just under a week, to attend Treize's Christmas Eve Ball, an affair which, this year, was going to be ridiculously lavish, given that it was also his 21st Birthday. The length of the Guest List alone had made Zechs's head hurt when Treize had asked him to help with the arrangements.

Now, though, sitting in the overly-gilded Hall at Alliance Command, hearing the rustle of wool and braid and silk and satin from the hundreds of assembled Officers and Guests, it was worry that was causing Zechs's head to hurt. Treize had slept the flight through and was riding a cocktail of drugs to blunt his symptoms, but what had been a mild cold in his daughter was practically full-blown flu in him and he was distinctly suffering.

Exchanging a glance with Captain Chennault on Treize's other side he saw his concern reflected, but also a certain amount of acceptance of what the Commander had said in the way that the older man shrugged and turned his attention back to his programme.

Zechs took a bracing breath, and forced himself to do the same. Treize's appreciative touch to his arm a moment later was reward enough.

* * *

Four hours later, Zechs was bored of listening to overweight, over-the-hill generals witter on, even more bored of making small talk with their half-starved, vapid wives and thoroughly sick of having flash bulbs go off in his face. Worse, he just knew his plastered on smile was starting to look like the grimace it truly was, despite his best efforts.

There'd been about five minutes of the whole bloody day that had been worth anything, as far as he was concerned, those which had followed General Catalonia's formal presentation of his Military Flying Medal and Remy's Distinguished Service Order, when Treize had gotten to his feet and made the shortest speech of his career to date, thanking his Officer's for their talent and dedication and congratulating them on their medals. Ill or not, the look in his eyes as he'd pinned the medal to Zechs's jacket – his right as his Commander, under Specials Regs – had been brimming with pride and affection, almost as warm as the hug he would have offered had they been anywhere else.

Still, where he would have run and hidden in a corner on any other day, now he forced himself to stay on his feet and mingling, actively seeking attention from the Press, doing his best to soak attention away from his Commander.

Scattered through the room, he knew that the other Officers of the Wing were doing the same, even if Une was standing next their seated Commander, scowling icily at anyone who approached him too closely.

Of course, that was drawing all the wrong sorts of attention all by itself and he was surprised at Treize for letting her do it.

Smiling falsely at the latest reporter to accost him, Zechs excused himself and approached his brother, and his watchdog.

"What are you doing?" he hissed at Une as he drew level. "You're as good as advertising that there's something wrong?"

Une glared at him, her face in chilly lines but Zechs could see the same worry buried in her eyes as there had been aboard the command ship. "Since there is, I fail to see the harm in that!" she spat.

"Only in that it screws up all the work we've been doing on the image of the new Wing!" he fired back. "You're making him look weak! He's supposed to be our marvellous New Hope against The Rebels," he pointed out, quoting Catalonia's speech. "He's hardly that hiding behind your skirts!" And he had to wonder just how shit Treize was feeling to have not noticed that for himself, because if Zechs had spotted it, Treize should have been all over it.

"I'm not wearing skirts!" Une retaliated.

Zechs narrowed his eyes. "Not the point, you idiotic bint!"

He pushed past her, taking Treize's arm under the elbow and applying upward force. "You insisted on being here," he said as softly as he could, trying not to whisper directly in his ear for fear of press shots potentially even more damning than those Une had been generating. Zechs's preference for his own gender was no secret; all they needed was Treize looking both as though he needed a girl to defend him and as though he were fucking one of his male officers besides. His public image danced on the edge between elegant and effeminate as it was.

"Zechs?" he asked, equally softly.

Zechs tightened his grip. "You insisted on being here," he repeated, tugging again. "You're going to have to do better than this. Come on," he ordered, knowing he had no right to say any such thing.

Treize, thank God, obeyed and came to his feet under Zechs's second sharp tug upwards.

There were more camera flashes, prompting Zechs to drop his hold and step back immediately. "There are times," he said as softly and with as little lip movement as he could, "when you being my brother would be very handy public knowledge."

Treize gave him a careful nod, one hand gripping his sword hilt so hard that Zechs knew his fingers were bloodless under the gloves. "Agreed." He stepped closer again, finding a warm smile that showed nothing of his teeth – faked entirely, Zechs knew. "Walk with me?" he asked, lifting his voice a little, to let it be picked up. "We'll find Captain Chennault."

Zechs nodded, waiting for the older man to lead off, as protocol demanded and not entirely surprised when Treize put his free hand down on his shoulder.

Carefully keeping daylight between their bodies, Zechs kept his pace slow as they crossed the Hall and kept Treize's cover. The hand resting on his shoulder – deliberately the shoulder covered by his cape – looked guiding, fatherly, comradely, the touch of a senior officer talking to a junior he was pleased with, who he was offering advice or praise to. Certainly, Zechs made sure to give away no hint that it was a death-grip, close on bruisingly tight.

Smiling impishly for anyone looking, Zechs snared two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one off to his commander, raising his in cheerful salute.

"Your health," he murmured, a standard toast and a question at the same time.

"Migraine," Treize said, covering his reply with the bare sip of the wine he took. He smiled again for the photographer that appeared suddenly, and Zechs did the same, both of them looking straight into the lens for a few seconds, giving the man the perfect, almost posed publicity shot he'd been seeking – Major Khushrenada privately thanking Lieutenant Marquise as they relaxed after the medal ceremony, both polished, poised and dashing.

Treize blinked away the flash bulb, shaking his head slightly as he winced. "Catalonia will like that one," he said evenly.

Zechs nodded, agreeing. He would, which had been half the reason for getting Treize out from behind Une in the first place. Half a dozen of the right shots and the Press would sod off home to write up their pieces, which would mean that they could all leave as well.

He sipped his own wine, scanning the room, looking for Remy and either Otto or Leander. He found Remy and Otto together and flicked his head to call them over.

Both other men made their way across the room immediately, and Zechs let Chennault take his place with Treize, shaking hands and smiling as the flash bulbs went again.

Zechs turned to Otto. "Are you carrying that might clear a headache?" he asked quietly, making sure his back was to the cameras. The question was innocent enough, particularly with him asking it, but Otto's response might very well not be.

Otto blinked at him. "Not feeling too good, sweetie?" he asked lightly, matching volume. His tone and phrasing were innocuous, but his gaze was sharp, assessing the blond quickly. "You don't look sick."

Zechs shook his head. "I'm fine," he reassured. He flicked a meaningful gaze to the side, knowing Otto was close enough to catch it through the glasses and sharp enough to know he was being told to look behind his friend, to something over his left shoulder. He watched as Otto's melted-chocolate eyes followed the subtle instruction and scanned over Treize, leaving the shorter man grimacing.

"Oh," was all Otto said. "You've nothing...?"

The blond knew what his former room mate was asking; with all the various issues Zechs had, he never went anywhere without carrying half a dozen fast-acting prescription pills of various sorts. Albeit not prescribed for Treize, they were still orders more legitimate than anything Otto might have that was stronger than the couple of aspirin Zechs was sure Treize would already have taken.

Zechs shook his head again, regretfully. "Nothing that's a good idea right now," he murmured. "Too strong." And it was true. Zechs was carrying two different things that would definitely act as a painkiller, but only as a side effect of their intended use. One was a strong sedative, and would see Treize out cold in twenty minutes, his body virgin to the drug, and the other was an anti-psychotic which would have him seeing fairies dancing on the ceiling with the way it would screw his brain chemistry up, and which Zechs didn't want him to know about in any case.

Otto winced again. "I'm no better," he admitted. "I could get him high?" he offered cheekily, careful to cover the comment with a fake cough. "Might stop him caring whether his head hurts or not?"

Zechs rolled his eyes."Only if you don't want either of us with a career in the morning. He'd kill the pair of us." And he would – he'd made his opinion on drugs other than alcohol very, very clear. If it wasn't a drink or prescribed by a physician, it was the devil incarnate as far as Treize was concerned.

"Point," Otto acknowledged. "Though I bet he'd be fun," he added with a wicked little smile. "I'll go ask around," he offered.

"Fun?" Zechs asked lightly. That smile from Otto combined with thoughts of Treize belonged firmly in the Do Not Go There box of Zechs's thoughts. "Not thinking so," he denied. "Thanks," he said to the offer and turned back, knowing he was going to have to keep Treize on his feet and smiling for the cameras until Catalonia dismissed them with nothing but old-fashioned support and persuasion.

Fortunately for him, he'd had a good teacher.


End file.
